


The Night Before The End

by FizzyCustard



Category: X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Gen, Self-Hatred, Self-Mutilation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 07:27:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7213327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FizzyCustard/pseuds/FizzyCustard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The night before the day when Warren will take the 'Cure' and be counted as human, no longer a mutant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Night Before The End

Warren sat on his leather couch with his hands grasped tightly together in his lap. He sighed loudly to the silent air and lifted his hands, rubbing them through his already ruffled and messy hair. This was his last night as a mutant. He sighed again.

It suddenly dawned on him: he would no longer be ‘Angel’, but rather just plain old ‘Warren Worthington III’. Part of his very identity was being ripped away, and what for? Acceptance! That was what Warren so desperately needed and wanted in his life, acceptance from the social circles around him, and more importantly, his father. Worthington Industries would one day be his.

His blonde head rested against the back of the couch as he stared up at the ceiling of his lavish penthouse, situated on the upper most level of one of San Francisco’s tallest buildings: Worthington Tower. It felt like a prison. The air was cold and lonely. Above all…lonely. There were no bars on his windows or tall fences keeping him in. No, they were in his mind and in the minds of all mutants.

Memories swirled around his mind like a dense mist. That day came back to him, the one day in his life when he’d felt the most pain both emotionally and physically.  
Twelve year old Warren felt the beads of sweat dripping down his flushed face as the pain spread throughout his entire back, causing him to choke on his tears. Baby-like feathers fell silently, and blood dripped on the tiled bathroom floor. They had to go. He had to eradicate any evidence that they ever existed. But surely it would leave scars. 

“Not you,” his father said quietly, grimacing at the sight of his son’s pained face and the ugly stumps left on his shoulder blades. Warren cried harder at his father’s words, saddened by his disappointment. 

‘How can you hate me?’ he asked himself silently in his mind which was flooded by terror and sorrow. ‘I cut them off for you, but you still hate me.’

Now a grown man, but he still couldn’t stop himself crying. Just like that very day he cut away his own flesh to ‘fit in’ and be accepted, he cried. The tears wouldn’t stop falling.  
Warren walked slowly around his penthouse, weeping silently until he came to his bookcase, filled with books and DVDs. That was all his life was now. A life of isolation in which all he had was books and DVDs to keep him company. No friends, hardly any family, and no girl.

His shaking hand reached up and pulled out a book from the lines of spines with their fancy writing or bold, bright lettering. ‘The Angel Companion’. This was a book he’d brought purely out of interest to view the artwork inside. If he did indeed have a guardian angel, then where the hell were they? Why did he feel so deserted and alone?  
Tall, beautiful figures with out stretched hands, dressed in long, white robes. And large, white wings on their backs. They all looked so happy and content in their expressions as they looked down upon mankind.

Bag of shit! Warren screamed in his mind and threw the book across the floor, watching the pages crumple as they hit the carpet. The tears by now had dried upon his cheeks, leaving only anger in its place.

He walked to the bathroom, kicking away a cushion which had accidentally fallen from the couch. He kicked it with venom, gritting his teeth as he did so. If only he had one person to reassure him, console him, but no. He was alone again, as usual. Alone.

In the bathroom, he stared at himself, studying the white appendages which caused him both suffering and pain. But he loved to fly. The one thing in his life which he truly loved and he was prepared to take that away, or rather, have it taken away with one simple injection.

For ten, long years Warren Worthington III had been cursed, or that was how he saw it. This beautiful symbol of freedom, which so many people only dreamed of, had caused Warren to live a life as a recluse. ‘The Angel’ had been plastered across newspapers for the last six months or so after Warren had moved to San Francisco with his father. He’d hear classmates in college describing how wonderful it must be to have wings. All Warren could do was sigh, roll his eyes and ignore it, knowing that they have no idea what they’d be wishing on themselves. Having wings didn’t bring the freedom everyone thought it did, it instead brought unhappiness, alienation and a reason to feel depression eat away at your very being.

For a few short minutes, Warren sat on the toilet lid and contemplated his life. He was alone. That was what eat away at him more than anything, the loneliness. Day after day he prayed for a like-minded soul to be brought to him and make his spirits soar. Only he didn’t believe in God. But still something inside told him that out there, wherever it may be, heaven, another universe, there was something far bigger than anyone on this planet. Some dynamic force that drove the world.

A deep sigh slipped past his lips as he rested backwards against the toilet tank. His mind was full of thoughts, but above all he just needed someone to confide in. Someone who wouldn’t judge him as a freak or a monster.

Switching off the light, Warren stepped out of the bathroom and stared out through his large living room window, watching the long lines of traffic drive along the Golden Gate Bridge and all the city’s lights call out to him like small beacons of hope. His indecisive mind was certainly not going to let him rest tonight, he felt it.

He opened the balcony doors and stepped out, feeling the wind catch his face and the cool draught soothe his nerves. With one single jump, Warren cleared the railings, held his arms open and fell. With a gentle cry of delight, he opened his wings and let them take him back up into the air. It was truly exhilarant and created a unique sense of euphoria as he glided through the air, his wings only flapping once every ten to fifteen seconds.

Everything looked so small, so insignificant, almost as if his prior worries had drifted away somehow, leaving him to touch the sky.

How can I deny myself this? It’s so beautiful. 

The cold night dug into his flesh, but Warren was too occupied to even notice. All he cared about was flight. It was everything to him and by having that cure the next morning, it meant taking away everything. Warren would be left as a single, empty shell, deprived of what their heart truly desired.

Warren thought back to the first time he ever flew and smiled to himself. That was one of the best days of his life.

On his thirteenth birthday, Warren climbed out of his bedroom window, sure he’d do it this time. Previously he’d jumped from a tree in the backyard, leaving him with a few cuts and bruises but nothing major. Now, if this didn’t work it’d probably mean broken bones and a stay in hospital. His black sneakers slipped once or twice on the slick tiles, but gradually he made it up to the very top. 

Closing his blue eyes, Warren let himself fall forwards and instinctively let his wings do the rest. His wings opened and flapped furiously, but he made it. They could finally manage his full weight. Laughing loudly and shouting, Warren flew higher above the houses. Pure freedom. 

All he did was smile. But gradually that smile dissolved away into a frown as Warren circled the tower and stepped back onto his balcony, back into his life of alienation. He closed the prison gates behind him, shutting himself in. The air felt warm again, but somehow he now felt empty. That warmth did not soothe him.

12:30am.

Warren took the steady trek through into his bedroom, closing the door behind him. Lying in bed sometimes proved uncomfortable, but after tomorrow, he could have a proper rest. For once he could lie on his back.

Warren lay awake for about an hour afterwards thinking everything over. His wings spread out over the sides of his bed, relaxed and limp while the rest of his body remained on full alert. Once again, his arm reached out, patting the empty side of the bed where only his wing lay.

Having the Cure meant that he would be able to lead a normal life, have more friends and enjoy socialising. But was he ready to cut away part of who he truly was just for the sake of acceptance? Flying gave him freedom, but in order to be granted that freedom, he had to be imprisoned first. Could Warren step out of his prison and give up that freedom he loved so dearly?


End file.
